Good evening, officer.

Driving to work one night, mind completely not on driving, I get the sex lights in my rearview.

You know the sex lights, right? The lights that make you say, “Fuck!” when you see them. Yeah, those lights, in my rearview.

{Kid Rock suggests “roll on, roll on rollercoaster” as I write this, not very helpful of him}

Now I’m going to be late for work. Sex lights!

It started this evening with a continuation of a conversation I’ve been having with my wyvern physician. She’s trying to help me screw the head back onto my dragon, with mixed results. Her help is greatly appreciated, dubious though the results may be. Impressively impartial, that one.

After, with thoughts circling in my head trying to coalesce into decisions, or at least courses of possible action, the next priority in my head is food - I need to eat before work. Wendy’s is that-away and work is this-away, but I’ve left plenty early, so there should be no issue.

Unless, that is, Wendy's is not “open late, so I can eat great” this evening. Sex lights? Baluum.

{Now Roy Rogers has extolled the virtues of Lovenworth. Apparently he and the warden are having a ball}

So I go all the way downtown, still on schedule, and hit Jack’s place. From my turn onto the main drag to Jack’s takes 8 or 9 lane changes and two full on turns. Apparently, I used two blinkers to accomplish this. Also apparent (now) is that this does not meet the state patrol’s requirements for number of blinkers per lane change / turn.

Sex light? Yes, now we have sex lights.

Around the car on two sides come state patrol officers. I blame the cleanly shaved skull for this unnecessary caution on their part.

Hand them the ID, “Good evening, officer”. They’re there just to do their job. (oh, that sentence feels good, no?) No point in being foul.

“Do you know why we pulled you over?” C’mon like I’m going to answer that, even if I know the answer. Which, in this case, I don’t.

“No, sir.”

{Now Garth is contemplating which girl to take home from the bar.}

He tells me about my lack of blinkers and says, “How much have you had to drink tonight, sir?”

!

Right, well I suppose he doesn’t know me from Adam, so…

“I don’t drink, normally, and certainly not on the way to work.”

Whence ensues a discussion of where I work. Now is also the time that I realize I need to call and tell the boss’ answering machine that I’m going to be late.

“Can I see your proof of insurance and registration, sir?”

Rooting around for a couple of moments turns up an insurance card that I’m certain is no longer valid, but he wants something so…

Much more rummaging results in the registration. (Please, please don’t be for the bug. It wasn’t.)

After a pointed look from me to the insurance paper to me and back, I cast about for another piece of paper to prove I’m a law abiding citizen. And I found… another insurance paper that is also invalid, but in a different way. Sex lights! I think I’m going o be more than late for work, I think they’re contemplating running me in.

“We’ll be back in a few minutes, sir.”

{The race is on in George Jones’ world}

After a discussion (during which I did call the boss’ answering machine) they come back and ask some more questions.

“No ticket tonight, sir.”

“Really? I thought for sure you were going to be the balance to the unbelievably good luck I’ve been enjoying recently.”

“No, sir. Not tonight. Please remember your signals, at least 100 feet prior to making any maneuvers.”

“Thank you, officer. Have a nice night.”

And that is how charmed I am right now. Come, rub me. The luck is good over here. So far…

{Rob Thomas is very sorry about the attitude he needs to get, but no one else will take his shit, so..}